


The Science of Deduction

by thesnowfire13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clues, F/M, Fluff, Murder, Mystery, Unsolvable Crimes, consulting detective, kidnap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesnowfire13/pseuds/thesnowfire13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all of his life, Sherlock has been alone. He was the first of his kind, a Consulting Detective. When he stumbles upon a waitress in a local café, Sherlock deduces there may be more than one Consulting Detective in London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

**Chapter One**

 

“There you go Detective Sherlock.” Camie Greer set the cuppa down on the table next to the dark, brooding man. He never looked up from the photos of a crime scene.

“Thank you.” His eyes shot up to her. “How did you know?

Camie smiled.”When you cam in, you put a magnifying glass in your pocket. As you came in, you observed the whole room and found nothing of interest so you sat down in the window seat to watch the streets incase anything of importance did pass by. And trust me, nothing hardly ever does. I came over and you were on your computer. The homepage was set to the Science of Deduction blog written by Sherlock Holmes. The way the page was sets up tells me that you write the blog. You paid me right away because you never know when you’ll have to run. When you opened your billfold, the ID clearly read Sherlock Holmes. So, Detective Sherlock Holmes, simple.”

“Are you a fan?” His voice was dull. “Fans are boring.”

“No, I am a doctor of deduction... Nearly. I’m exactly like you.” Camie put her notepad back in her apron.

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows. Sherlock started clearing up the papers on his table. He took two and handed them to her. His eyes glanced at her name tag. “What’s missing? One is at the site the other is ten minutes later and the mortuary.”

The woman in the photo was middle aged, blonde, and one side of her head had been smashed in. Camie winced. The jewelry had been left on the woman and anyone who had that much gold would be very rich.

“One of her rings is missing.” She pointed it out to Sherlock. “The silver one. It wasn’t an engagement or marriage ring, just jewelry.”

“Correct. This is Ann Humblr, an antiques dealer. The ring was engraves with Sekmet’s symbol, the sun disk.”

“The Goddess of warfare, right. So she was a part of a Egyptian blackmarket cult.” Camie handed Sherlock the photos.

“Yes. Most likely in Memphis and Leontopolis.” Sherlock stood and put his long grey trench coat and scarf on. “I’ll have to tell the Detective Inspector that it was simple. Shame, I was bored. Drop by my apartment tonight, 221B Baker Street.”

“Why? I hardly know you. How can I trust you?”

“You know you can trust me. You’ve observed it haven’t you. And we know enough about each other already, isn’t that right?” He smiled. “My assistant is out of town this week at a medical meeting in Glasgow. I need a replacement.”

“Ok.”

He nodded to her and left quickly. Camie watched Sherlock call a cab and step in. She smiled and went back behind the counter.

Camie’s cousin Rosalie watched her as she shut the cash register. “Who was that bloke you were talking to?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Rosalie raised her eyebrows.

“He’s a detective. On the police force. There’s nothing wrong with him.”

“He could be lying.”

“He had a badge.” Camie crossed her arms and leaned against the counter happy for the slow hour. “He had police photos from the crime scene and crime scene reports. He’s not lying.”

Rosalie sighed. “Right up your alley then. Taken a fancy to him?”

“I don’t know, but I like him, Rosie.” Rosie smiled at Camie’s smile. “He invited me to his flat tonight.”

“Business or pleasure?”

Camie grabbed four white mugs and rolled her eyes. She started to fill them with decaf. “Business. And he doesn’t seem like the pleasure type.”

“You sure about that?”

Camie shook her head. “Yes, I am sure Rosie. I can handle myself and I’ll be fine.”

“Alright!” Rosie put her hands up in defeat. “I know you can. I’m just saying he could be a creeper or psychopath or something.”

Camie put a pot of coffee and the four filled mugs on a tray. “I’ll bring my pepper spray and rape-cat. Would that make you feel better?”

“Only if you let me drive the escape car.”

Camie laughed. “Okay, whatever. I’ll be fine though, don’t worry.”

  
  


**7:50 PM**

 

Camie knocked on the door of 221B Baker street. She shivered as the cold Autumn wind blew through her black tights. A muffled shout came from inside. Nerves twisted in her stomach and she started to reach for her pepper spray. Her cell phone vibrated with a text from Rosalie. Rosie was probably wondering if she was dead or not. And if Sherlock had murdered her.

 The door swung open and a little old lady with dyed blonde hair and a purple dress smiled down at her from the top step. She was single, no wedding ring, either the landlady or Sherlock’s mother. Camie hoped she was the landlady.

“Hello dearly. If you’re here for Doctor Watson, he’s away on a trip.

Camie let go of the pepper spray. “Actually, I was looking for a Sherlock Holmes. He told me he lived here.”

“Oh, yes he does. Are you a girlfriend? We never really have women around here except Doctor Watson’s girlfriend, Sarah. I like her. No boys either, mind you. Mr. Holmes really isn’t the relationship type of person. Come on in, come in.” She waved Camie though and shut the door behind the two of them. “So are you his girlfriend? He’s never had a girl before. It will be so good for him.”

“Oh, no. I’m not his girlfriend. He offered me a job. As his assistant.”

The woman sighed. “Shamed, would be nice to have another woman around. Sherlock’s upstairs.”

“Thank you, Mrs....”

“Hudson, dearly.” She smiled and disappeared into a different room.

Camie scaled the old, dark stairs quietly. She couldn’t hear Holmes moving above her and wondered if maybe that was bad. If he was moving, she would know that he wasn’t hiding from her. There was a room at first flight. The light was on. Tables and desks were covered with papers and boxes. On her left, another opening showed a table covered in tubes, liquids, and vials like some sort of chemistry project. Camie went into the first room. The floor was relatively clean. And bookshelves lined the walls. There was a couch with a coffee table in front of it. Sherlock sat in one of three chairs, facing a lit fireplace. The fire was about the only light in the room. It made everything glow gold, an effect Camie had always loved.

“Please, take a seat.” He waved her over and she sat in the chair without the British flag pillow facing Sherlock Holmes.

“Hello, again.” Camie smiled.

“Hello.” Sherlock opened his eyes. He had lost his black blazer and draped it over the other chair’s arm. The sleeves of his cream colored shirt were rolled up showing one skin colored nicotine patch on his arm. The first button of his shirt was undone.

“I let you observe me. Not let me observe you.” Sherlock smiled. “If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

“Good. Let’s begin.” He sat back in his chair, his fingertips pressed together to form a steeple, and watched her. “First off: clothes. The fact that you can dress yourself well and wear all black tells me you’ve lived in the city all your life. But your accent tells me you aren’t from London, probably Glasgow. From the state of your hands and the depressions in your nose, I know that you read and write a lot and you wear glasses. Writer, maybe, but your arms and legs are toned. Says you do a lot of walking, so from your age, twenty-seven, I can see that you are a Post-Graduate going to university in London for her Phd. On your notepad you had a Mr. Braxton and a phone number written on it. The Mr. Tells me he’s older and only on business terms. You are a post-grad still trying to pay off debts after nine years of university. Most likely you are looking for cheeper rent so Mr. Braxton must be a landlord. How much did her offer?”

“700 pounds a month.”

“Shame, Mrs. Hudson has a room upstairs for 250 a month.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “You don’t trust me.”

“No.” Camie shook her head. “But I am starting to.”

“You’re struggling to pay. And you aren’t going to anyone. Your parents haven’t sent anything so they either don’t speak to you or they are dead. No close extended family. No boyfriend.” Sherlock paused then nodded. “How did I do?”

“I live with my cousin Rosalie. She’s moving to Brixton with her fiancee and I need to find a new house because I can’t afford my current flat without Rosie. I am a university student studying for my Phd. My parents and sister were killed by a drunk driver fifteen years ago. I am not in debt, but my personal account has been running lower and lower.” Camie sat back and put her purse on the floor.

“Sherlock kept studying her. “Shot in the dark. Didn’t expect to get everything. You hide your life well.”

“Why did you bring me here?” Camie stroked the arm of her chair and stared at the fibers.

“I need someone to talk to. Watson’s gone and Mrs. Hudson tossed my skull.” He glanced at the fire place mantle where his skull used to sit. “Help me solve a crime.”

“Do I get paid?”

“Depends. Move in and I’ll get Mrs Hudson to give you the first month free.”

“I’ll take the job and assist you, but I’m not sure about the flat.”

Sherlock smiled. “Good. It’s settled then. Now, tell me, when will you be moving in?”

Camie smiled. He was clever. “Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“I’ll tell Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock jumped up and walked over to the window. Below, a police car flashed its lights, but there was no siren. “Up for a murder?”  

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camie and Sherlock visit the scene of a murder.

**Chapter Two**

 

 

The cab slowed to a stop at a red light. Camie glared at Sherlock who was staring out the window.

"So you're a part of the forensics team?" Camie asked.

Sherlock glanced at her then back out the window. "I'm not. I am a Consulting Detective. When the police are you of their depth, they consult me."

"Hello freak. Lestrade invited you?" Sally raised the yellow tape so Sherlock could walk under. She stopped Camie. "Who's this? A girlfriend of yours?"

"A colleague. Doctor Camie Greer." Camie folded her hands and stared at Sally. Sally rocked back on her heels and glanced away for a second.

Sally put her hand on her hip. "Doctor of what exactly?"

"Deduction and psychology." Camie smiled. "I was invited, too."

Sherlock smirked as Sally hesitated, looked at Sherlock, and then lifted the tape for Camie, too. Camie ducked under the tape, and she took a deep breath. Sherlock gave her a reassuring look, as if he knew exactly what she was going to stay. Sally grinned. "Have fun on your date last night, Sally?"

Sherlock laughed and took Camie's arm. He lead her to the doorway and nodded at the guard. They walked across the wide dark marble floor around the fountain. "That was quite good."

"Really. You think so?" Camie grinned at the dark haired man.

"Course. It was brilliant." Sherlock lead her up the stairs of the abandoned hotel. Blue crime scene lights lined the steps. "What gave it away?"

"She smelled like man." Camie let go of his arm as they reached the top of the stairs. Policemen and investigators in blue suits walked about, disappearing into rooms. Some stared at Sherlock as he came closer, only to turn away when Sherlock stared back.

The man from Sherlock's apartment, Lestrade, was waiting. Sherlock pulled two pairs of black gloves out of his pocket and handed a pair to Camie. Sherlock stopped in front of Lestrade while pulling his gloves on. "Where is it?"

"In the ballroom. I can give you ten minutes before you are questioned." Lestrade started walking down the hall.

"Good -wait- questioned?"

"Yes, the whole team seems to believe you murdered her."

Sherlock snorted. "We'll just have to prove them wrong. Come along, Camie." He glanced back at her. She had taken off her coat and put her hair up. "Ever seen a dead body?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to see more?" Sherlock put his hands in his coat pockets.

"Would I be here if I didn't?"

Lestrade opened the doors and let Sherlock and Camie in. A man laid in the middle of the room, sprawled out with a watery pool of blood around his head. The room stank of bleach. "The victim's name is Mark Bitterpool, age 23, works as a personal assistant at the national bank. Found this morning by two women and a relator looking to by this place."

"Why do you think I killed him?" Sherlock never took his eyes off the body. Camie stepped closer and bent over Mark. She looked up when Lestrade sighed and went back to the doors. He closed them as Camie and Sherlock watched. Written across the door in red was SHERLOCK. "Humph. Interesting. When was she killed?"

"About 24 hours ago."

"Good. I didn't do it. I was stuck inside all day. Bored. Ask Mrs. Hudson." He turned back to the body. "Now, Ms. Greer, what do you think?"

Camie handed Lestrade her coat and crouched beside the man. She picked up both of his hands and looked them over. "Detective Inspector, why do you think this man was murdered?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth raised so slightly it hardly counted as a smile. Lestrade stared blankly. "Sorry, what?"

"Do you think this man was murdered by Sherlock?" Camie stood.

"No. I trust that Sherlock will never kill anyone."

"Then why is Sherlock's name written on the door?" Camie pointed to the entrance. Sherlock chuckled.

Lestrade continued to stare blankly at her. "I don't know. He must have been a fan."

Camie smiled. "Bitterpool was murdered. Look, the letters on the door written in blood. Cut on his wrist, his right wrist because he was left handed. How can I tell? There are ink smudges on the side of his palm. When he wrote his hand dragged across his words. Never see a lefty without it. But if he's left handed, how come there's no blood?"

She stopped, looking at Sherlock any help. He only stared back. "Continue."

Camie cleared her throat. "Ah, yes... Conclusion. Bitterpool was kidnapped on his way home, and the kidnapped forced him to cut his own wrists and write Sherlock on the door with a pain brush. Notice the brush marks. The killer slit his throat, took the tools, and bathed Bitterpool in bleach, as you can probably smell."

"She's brilliant. Where'd you find her, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes travelled over the floor not paying any attention to the DI. He waved his hand as if to say, carry on, I'm busy.

Camie watch him for a moment before looking over at Lestrade. "Where are his things?"

"We didn't find anything." Lestrade cleared his throat and glanced at Sherlock. "What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock laid on the floor, careful to not breathe hard. "You didn't find his cell phone because whoever murdered him hid them. Why? I don't know. Perhaps to just play a game. Had your officers not contaminated the scene, you might have noticed the footsteps in the dust leading to the fireplace. Size 10, generic soles."

"I was just about to-"

"No you weren't, don't lie." Sherlock stood and brushed the dust from his clothes.

Camie took a breath. "Fair enough."

"This killer will kill again. Call me when something more exciting happens." Sherlock tightened his scarf and waited for Camie to button her coat. "I think we're done here, don't forget to check the fireplace."

 

* * *

 

The shops and streets of London slid by behind the cab's windows. Sherlock had not said anything since the crime scene. The silence of the ride hung heavy around them.

"What is the great Sherlock thinking about now?" Camie turned her head away from the window to the shadowy man. He glance at her and adjusted himself in the seat.

"You taught yourself deduction."

"Anyone can learn."

Sherlock's eyebrows wrinkled in concentration. "Why?"

"Surely you have figure that out by now. Before I got in the cab this morning, you had deduced me twice." Camie folded her hands and grinned at Sherlock.

"Four actually. And yes, I have a good idea why, but I wanted to hear it from you."

Camie squinted and looked away, saying nothing.

"Or you can say nothing." Sherlock stared at her, watching the way the sun hit her cheekbones. "You were... Good today. At the crime scene. But, you need more work."

Camie smiled and shook her head. "Thank you."

 

* * *

 

When Camie returned from the bathroom, Sherlock was laying on the couch, eyes closed, hands together, and one sleeve rolled up. Three skin colored patches stuck to his arm. She sat in a chair by the crackling fire and stared at the violin laying on the ground. Camie started for the instrument, thought better of it, and sat back. With a glance back at Sherlock, she settled in her char. The warmth and glow of the fire penetrated the whole room. Light danced across the piles of books and haphazard stacks of paper.

She could get used to it here with Sherlock and John. Solving mysteries, reading books... That was the life she had wanted. Something itched in the back of her mind. Something was missing. A few minutes passed before Camie realized what was gone. The loneliness, that dark hole inside of her had vanished. She smiled. After feeling it for so long, Camie was surprised she didn't notice sooner. All those nights sitting in the dorm alone because her roommates thought she was a freak, studying a major she invented, where shared with loneliness.

In her coat pocket, Camie's phone vibrated with a message from Rosalie. Her cousin wondered how the day had gone and when she was coming home. But, Camie had no cash, no oyster card.

"Sherlock, could I stay over?"

His eyes flashed open and Sherlock glanced at Camie. "Of course. You live here now, don't you. The spare room is down the hall."

 

* * *

 

From the apartment across the street, a woman watched the two detectives. With a smile on her face, she opened a cell phone and dialed a man named M.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camie and Sherlock eat at Angelo's

**Chapter 3**

 

"You've only just met him and now you're moving in with the bloke? Is he the friend you stayed over with? Cam did you–?"

"No, I did not. We did not." Camie cut Rosalie off with a hiss. She glanced around the near empty café. "And, yes. I did stay over, but I was in a completely separate room. I even locked the door. He's a detective for the police, and his roommate is an army doctor. There's nothing odd about them. Everything checks out."

Rosalie raised her eyebrows and poured steaming water into a glass for a cup of tea. "Oh... Wait. I see. You did that thing you do on him, didn't you? That deduction science."

"Yes. I did. And he did it to me, Rosie." A smile stretched across Camie's face. "He's the smartest man I've ever met. I just... I feel like maybe, just maybe, I won't feel so a-"

Camie caught herself and blushed, looking away from her friend.

"So what? Alone?" The words came out of Rosie's mouth harsher than she met. When Camie nodded, Rosie touched her arm. "It's all right. I understand. But, the moment he starts creeping on you or whatever, you get out and call me. Promise?"

The smile returned to Camie's face. "I promise, but he won't. He's not like that."

Rosalie sighed. "You are so naïve." She walked away with the tea.

 

* * *

 

"I – came – as soon as – I – could." Camie bent over gasping from her two block sprint after a mile run.

Sherlock laid on the couch in almost the same position she had left him in.

"Oh, yes, good." He sat up and looked her over. "Have you been out running?"

"No, genius. I haven't." Her words dripped in sarcasm. "What is it?"

"There's been another murder, just as predicted. Same as the first, but with a new word attached." Sherlock looked away from her and directed his attention to the computer on the coffee table.

"Yeah, what?"

"Play?"

"Sherlock play. Is that it? Or perhaps they're giving us words out of order."

"We'll have to wait." He laid back down again.

"Wait. We can't wait, Sherlock. People will be killed. Who knows how long the message will be." Camie wiped at the sweat dripping down her face.

"We can't do anything about it. Lestrade is doing a public announcement, more patrols will be added. They'll be doing their best." Sherlock closed his eyes.

"And what about you? Will you be doing your best?"

"I'm always doing my best. The question is are you, Camie Greer? While working your menial job at that café, how many theories did you come up with?" Before she could answer, Sherlock moved on. "I, however, spent the morning in my mind palace and returned with two- Moriarty and no Moriarty."

"Who's Moriarty?"

"I have no clue." Sherlock's hands folded to let his chin rest on his index fingers.

Camie sat in a chair by a desk and scanned the stacks of paper before once again returning to Sherlock. Any other person would have thought he was sleeping. "How can you be so calm?"

"How can you be so boring and smart at the same time?" Sherlock sprung to his feet. "What is the point of a murder if you can't track the murderer down?"

"What is the point of living if you will inevitably die?" Camie raised her eyebrows and let Sherlock stare at her through squinted eyes. "As for theories, I thought of one at breakfast."

 

* * *

 

"Tell me about yourself."

"Why should I? You know everything." Sherlock looked passed her at the street.

"You know as well as I that deduction isn't perfect."

A beefy man in an apron came to the table with menus. A grey bread hung in a pony tail. "Ah, Sherlock, hello. Nice to see you again."

"Camie, this is Angelo, an old customer of mine."

"Hello." Camie smiled, letting Angelo take her hand and kiss it.

"Hello, Miss Camie." Angelo set the menus on the table. "This man got me off a murder charge. Brilliant man as you probably know. This a date, Sherlock? I thoughts you were with that Doctor fellow of yours. The one with the limp."

Camie's cheeks flushed. Sherlock quickly noticed. "It's not a date. Camie and I are colleagues."

"Right, then. Anything on the menu is on the house like always. I'll get a candle for the table." With a broad smile, Angelo walked away.

"It's not a date." Camie called after him. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sherlock smiling. Angelo came back not a moment later with a candle. He lit it quickly and left. Camie let out a breath. "Anyways, I don't know everything about you."

"Like what?"

"You're dating your flatmate?"

"Hmm, what," Sherlock looked away from the street at her, "no. I am not dating John."

"Girlfriend? Probably not, at least not a long term one..." Camie looked down at her hands on the table and saw her wrists. She drew them away and pulled down her sleeves.

Sherlock glanced away before she caught him staring. "How about you? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

"No." Camie watched the candle for a moment and took in how the light bounced off the table. Her ears flicked from conversation to conversation before settling on the one before her. "Never been my strongest suit. Not many people could keep up with me and I guess it sort of scared them. At university I was known as the book freak."

Camie spun the candle between her fingers, not paying much attention to Sherlock. He studied her, the light on her face and how it lit up a scar on her forehead, the light birthmark peaking out from under her jacket on her neck. The emptiness Sherlock had buried deep inside of himself ripped open, raw and lonely.

Sherlock glanced at the brown eyed, dark brown haired woman sitting diagonally to him. Before she could notice, he looked away. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, trying to control this feeling. He couldn't place it, couldn't figure out what it was called. He just knew he hadn't felt it in a very long time.

"Order something to eat." He said as Angelo walked by.

Camie stopped the man and ordered a bowl of noodles. As Angelo walked away, she turned to Sherlock. In his pocket, Sherlock's phone dinged. He pulled it out and read the message.

"Lestrade?" Camie asked.

Sherlock nodded and put his phone away. "Two more murders with the words my and game."

"Play my game, Sherlock."

"Precisely. It doesn't help me solve any more of it. If they are trying to get my attention, they should try to not bore me to death."

"I wouldn't call three murders in one day boring." Camie straightened her back. "Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Holmes."

"I wonder how he survives. It really must take a lot of energy to be the most unfascinating serial killers in London. He really must–"

"She."

"What?"

"I think the murderer's a she. There aren't many documented woman, but it's not unknown."

"How do you know?"

"Just a feeling."

"A feeling?" Sherlock squared his shoulders and moved closer to her.

Camie focussed back on her flame, barely noticing Angelo placing her food in front of her. He left quietly. "When I was younger, I used to be able to guess what song would come on next the radio, or if a vase would fall and break. I thought I had super powers, but I realized that it was just subconscious deduction. Every now and then I get these feelings about an idea or event. Think about the care and the methodical thinking that when into these murderers. She didn't cut the victim's wrists, she got them to cut their own."

The two sat silently, thinking the idea over with two brilliant minds. Camie stared blankly at her food. "The only feeling I can compare it to is this feeling of emptiness, this longing to make something right again."

"Longing?" Sherlock asked softly.

"When you want something so bad, but you can't reach it." Camie stared at her steaming food. "When you finally figure it out, you keep reaching, but it just keeps moving farther away. And, eventually, you're left with a hole in your gut."

Then Sherlock notice it, something in the way Camie looked at him, the red in her cheeks when he stared too long on accident. Sherlock moved closer, making sure he was right, not noticing he was just inches away from her. His face softened and that longing feeling returned. He knew what he wanted now. When Camie looked at him, he knew she knew, too. Camie hesitated with scared, brown eyes. Her warm lips touched his.

Camie pulled away with a little smile on her face. She glanced out at the streets then looked down at her food. Sherlock had not taken his eyes off her. Camie's lips tingled. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Angelo glancing over and smiling. She did not want to look over at Sherlock, didn't want to see his reaction, to see if she had been right about his feeling.

"Sorry." She said, when he didn't say anything.

"Why?" His voice was deep and a little strained, but soft. Distant, almost, like he was trying to remember something.,

"I-I don't know. I just... Maybe we should go." Camie's hand went for her coat, but her took her wrist.

Sherlock looked down at her hand, confused, trying to find the right words. "I consider myself married to my work."

"So do I." Camie turned her eyes to his confused face. Behind those blue eyes, she could see gears turning until at last, something seemed to click. He leaned closer, slowly, and hesitated. Camie glanced at his lips and closed her eyes.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walks are taken, walls are built, walls are shattered.

**Chapter 4**

 

Camie hadn't thought of Sherlock as a good kisser until that night. Upon telling him, Sherlock promptly told her that she needed a little work. His voice was harsh, but there was a smile in his eyes. They sat in uncomfortable silence before calling a cab back to 221B.

Sherlock disappeared into his room the moment they arrive. A half an hour passed, so Camie shut the door to her room and sat on the bed, staring at the boxes on her floor. They were stuffed full with most of her things. She hadn't been able to move everything out of Rosalie's apartment at once. Camie sighed. Her hand twitched, searching for something to do, something crazy and irrational. She picked up her new mystery book that sat on the edge of the bed. Camie read the first five pages, only to throw the book and mutter, "The butler did it. Why is it always the butler?"

Camie jumped as the door flew open. Sherlock rushed in and grabbed her hand, pulling her out the door.

"What happened?" Camie ran after him, almost stumbling down the stairs.

"Nothing. Just come with me." His deep voice rose three pitches, and sweat accumulated on his forehead from nervousness. As Sherlock pushed open the door, Camie snatched her coat off the hook at the bottom of the stairs as Sherlock pushed open the door and pulled her out onto the cold London streets. He let hold of her hand as he called a passing cab. Camie buttoned her double breasted coat and pulled on her gloves as the cab rolled to a stop. They climbed in.

"Where to?" The cabbie looked back at them.

As Sherlock took off his gloves, he rambled off a name and turned to Camie. Her cheeks flushed as Sherlock watched her without a shred of emotion on his face. He took her hand, moving his fingers to the seam of her right glove. He pealed off her glove and turned her hand over. Sherlock pushed her sleeve up, but Camie tore her hand away. She held her wrist and looked away. Her eyes travelled to the floor of the cab. "Some scars don't heal."

Sherlock rubbed his own arms feeling the nicotine patches on his skin. "Still the addict."

His phone rang in his pocket drawing his attention. "Yes... How unfortunate... Why... Oh, yes... We'll be there in the morning... Yes, it can wait. Thanks, Molly."

Sherlock slid the phone into his coat pocket and adjusted his scarf. "Molly found Aconite on the victims skin."

"Why poison them when they are bleeding out?"

"Perhaps to scare them into writing the message."

"Write the message and you get the antidote." Camie slid her glove back on. "Where are we going now?"

"On a..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Date. John's always suggesting I go on one. I thought a walk along the Thames would be nice. That is what people do on date, I assume. It's always helped me think."

 

* * *

 

The city lights shimmered on the dark water. In the distance, boat and car horns echoed each other. The street Sherlock and Camie walked was dim and silent. White clouds of vapor escaped their lips when they breathed. Camie watched as the water in her breath crystalized and fell softly. Her hand wrapped around Sherlock's. She could feel the mental war in his head through his hand. The muscles would tighten and relax. He would look at her, start to say something, and then look away.

This was going against everything he had ever known. He couldn't understand the emotion he was feeling. Love was a primal, chemical thing that couldn't be controlled. Sherlock fought for control and found there was none to have. These feelings weren't rational or logical. Sherlock looked down at Camie at the way the light and water reflected off her cheeks and eyes. A slight smile played on her lips. She was enjoying this. The revelation shook Sherlock. She enjoyed spending time with him. The third person ever to be happy when he was around.

Camie looked up at him before he could look away. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something. In this light, her skin looked flawless. Her hand shivered in the cold and her heart was beating faster than in the cab. The sadness that had been there before was gone. The mental wall that separated logical from primal in Sherlock's brain shattered.

Sherlock pulled her closer and ran his thumb over her jaw line. He titled her head up and saw the fear in her eyes. But, when Sherlock started to back away, she pulled him closer.

The raw ache, the longing, in his stomach reappeared and he wanted nothing more than to be back at the flat with her. He pulled away, took Camie's hand, and ran for the flat.

 

* * *

 

Camie was laughing as they ran into the flat, breathing hard. As they hung up their coats, the duo listened for Mrs. Hudson's snores. Camie took Sherlock's hand and pulled him up the stairs to the living room. Camie took off her jacket and laid it on the couch. Sherlock did the same, slowly. He had stopped looking at her. Camie took his hands. Tears from the cold shone in her eyes. One touch of her lips and the partial wall Sherlock was building shattered once more.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camie and Sherlock wake up together and work on solving the murders.

**Chapter 5**

 

Bright sunlight poured through the crack between the curtain and the window. Camie groaned. She swore she closed that right before bed. Then again, she was a little preoccupied... Camie looked down, noticing the weight and warmth of an arm around her waist. Sherlock. She smiled, lost in a warm, sunlight world of pure happiness. The softness of the sheets, the darkness of the room, save the one ray of light. Camie caressed his smooth skin. The loneliness was gone, vanished along with her doubts. Now, she never wanted to leave his side.

Camie rolled over. Sherlock's hair drifted across his face, his breathing slow, fine lips parted slightly. He still slept, and Camie had never seen more peace in that face. She brushed his black hair from his eyes and kissed his lips. Sherlock's eyes opened and he let himself smile.

He had been wrong. Love wasn't boring.

This was love, wasn't it? He knew nothing of love, only knew that they hadn't "made love" last night. He brushed his thumb over her lips as Camie watched him, wide-eyed kindness and admiration... And happiness. The only people who ever gave him that look were John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and his mother. His mother hadn't been able to give him that look since... Sherlock didn't like to remember.

"Sherlock? Sherlock. You still asleep?" There was a knock before Lestrade burst in. He stopped and stared. "Well, that's a first. Sorry, I'll give you two a moment."

He backed out the door and closed it behind him. Camie jumped out of the bed and straightened her top. She found her pants and tugged them on. Sherlock watched, noticing the tint of embarrassment in her cheeks. He sat up and reached for the dress shirt Camie had carefully taken off him last night. Camie tried to straighten her hair in the mirror. Sherlock picked up the shirt and remembered something. He set the cloth on the bed and stood. He took a step towards her then another. Camie turned and peered up at him under her bangs.

"I would really like to do this again." Sherlock scratched his chin.

Camie smiled. "Me, too. It was... Nice."

Her cheeks flushed bright and she left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He needed another Nicotine Patch. Camie had taken the three he had on last night off. He smiled at the memory as he opened the top drawer of his night stand and pulled out the box. He stuck a patch to his wrist as someone knocked at the door. Lestrade leaned against the closed door outside. "Come on, Sherlock. There's a murder on 347 Brigsglow Street. We're both late now because someone was occupied and couldn't answer his god damn mobile. I'll meet you there. Find your own cabbie."

Sherlock smiled and stuck another patch on his arm.

 

* * *

 

"What's the word?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and turned away from the hugging dead couple. "Words. There were two murders. My and name."

"Perfect murders?" Camie asked over the line.

"In every way." Sherlock walked out of the room and down the hall of the abandoned hotel. "You still there?"

"Yeah." The background noise of a busy café dissolved as she spoke.

"Will you be at the flat tonight?" Sherlock slipped on his gloves as he walked out of the building.

"Yeah, I'm just visiting my cousin. I'll be back by 9:30 about."

"Visiting your cousin? I could use your expertise, Camie." Sherlock ducked under the yellow tape and out into the streets, ignoring the glare from Donovan.

"I guess you'll just have to talk to a skull." Camie hung up before Sherlock could think of a comeback.

 

* * *

 

"Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock. I'm back. I brought some Italian from Angelo. Yours is by the door Mrs. Hudson if you want it." Camie set the box down and hung her coat up. "Sherlock?" Camie walked up the stairs and into the living room. Sherlock laid on the couch, fingertips pressed together beneath his chin, and wearing nothing but boxers. He didn't move.

"Get hot?" Camie opened her late night dinner.

"Clothes are bothersome and restrictive."

"But not boxer shorts."

"No." Only his lips moved.

"Okay. I can live with that." Camie kicked off her shoes and started to unbutton her cardigan.

"Now you're just ruining all the fun." Sherlock hadn't opened his eyes.

"Are you okay?" Camie hung the wool cardigan on the back of her chair.

"Relationships are distractions from important details."

Camie smiled and set her dinner on the counter for later. She walked over, picked up Sherlock's legs and sat down. She let his legs fall across hers. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, assessing what she had done. "Yes, they are. If you can't control yourself. But if you don't want a distracting relationship, we can stay coworkers. It might be best."

Sherlock sat up and placed his feet on the floor. "I've observed Sarah and John and all his other people he calls girlfriends."

"And what did you learn?" Camie watched his face, curious.

He closed his eyes. "I don't understand half the things I feel. If John were here... What I am trying to say is–"

Camie kissed Sherlock's cheek. He turned as she kissed him again, this time on the lips. "I know what you are trying to say."

"You make me happy." Sherlock smiled, the words felt strange coming from his mouth. But, they were true.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camie meets big brother and Sherlock receives a letter.

**Chapter Six**

 

Eleven o’clock in the morning. Sunlight falling on their skin. No awkward memories of a shag with a stranger. No Lestrade. Work at twelve. A wondrous man with his arms around a woman’s waist. The warmth of his bare skin soaking through her tanktop.

Camie could feel the strength of his arms. He was stronger than he looked. Sherlock sighed and kissed that back of her neck. He ran his slender fingers over her skin and kissed the back of her neck.

“Good morning.” Camie whispered. Sherlock felt like an impossibility to her, though everything around her told Camie that he was, in fact, real.

“Is it a good morning?” Sherlock studied her. The curved line of her cheek, the way she took two breaths for everyone of his. He ran his hand down to her elbow and felt her pulse. He felt his own. To be sure.

“I’ve got work at twelve.” Camie sat up in the bed and ran her fingers through her hair.

“I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will make us breakfast.”

Camie smiled and rolled her eyes, “Oh, I’m sure she’ll do just that, Sherlock.”

 

* * *

 

Camie sat down at the table with Sherlock. He smiled and pushed her a plate of eggs. Camie looked down at the steaming food and then at her watch, “Thanks, but I think I’ll have to take this to go. I’m late.”

“I noticed. I hailed you a cab.”

Camie fastened her gold necklace and picked up her plate. She stood, picked up her bag with her other hand, and gave Sherlock a quick kiss on the cheek. Sherlock glanced at her necklace, “Peace and femininity.”

Camie touched the rune around her neck, “I know, Sherlock.”

She left with a smile. The door to 221B shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

Outside of 221B, there was no cabbie waiting for her. Instead, there was a black town car with a woman in the same color standing beside it. Her red nails tapped away on a phone. They matched the lipstick she wore.

Camie stepped closer, “I suppose that you are here for me.”

The woman smiled and opened the car door, “I am.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll be going to work anytime soon.”

“No, I suppose not. I hope you understand.”

Camie nodded, “Of course.”

The woman slid into the car. Camie glanced at the windows of 221B. Sherlock stood in the second window, violin to his shoulder. He did nothing, but Camie knew he was watching, so she joined the government woman in the car. Camie closed the car door and the car rolled away from her little apartment.

Camie pulled her phone from her pocket to text Mikey at work…

 

_Might be late. Caught in unexpected government business._

  * _Camie Greer_




Not twenty minutes later, the car rolled to a stop. The woman didn’t move, didn’t look up from her phone. Camie waited a moment before opening the car door and stepping out. The warehouse she was in seemed to stretch on an on. Faintly, off to the sides, Camie could hear the River Thames.

A man in a suit with a rounded belly sat at a small table, drinking a cup of tea. With a half-smile on his face, the man stood, umbrella in hand. From his suit, Camie knew he was a politician. From the crumbs on his tie, it was certain that he had a biscuit recently. His face showed the stress of his job. The woman in the car worked for him, and only him.

“Hello.” Camie walked closer, but stopped a good five meters away. The man was not to be trusted. His secrets were buried in his mind, and peered at through his eyes. Camie smiled.

“Hello.” The man’s half-smile never changed.

“How was your biscuit?” Camie waited for a reaction, but the man didn’t move. He was used to it. A colleague, no the enemy, no… The brother. The brother of Sherlock Holmes. “I assume that I am here because of your brother, Sherlock.”

The man’s eyes widened ever so slightly, “Yes, you are.”

“You are a valuable part of England. A very high official. You’ve done your research on me. Read my records. So, I assume that this is about money and information.”

“You are correct. I am prepared to offer you money for information, as the old deal so boldly goes.”

“I’ll take it.”

Another raised eyebrow, “You’ll take it?”

Camie nodded, “You love your brother. I need the money. I see no conflict of interests here. But, I am late for work, Mr. Holmes.”

 

* * *

 

Camie sighed and sat back in the bus seat. The café had just closed, and she had worked two extra hours to make up for being late. Over the apartments and shops of London, a grey storm boiled. Lightning lit up the distant edges of the city. Rain wasn’t far off.

The bus stopped. Camie slung her bag over her shoulder and hurried off the bus, eager to get back to 221B. She pushed through the throng of people trying to hurry onto the bus before the rain hit. Camie felt two cool raindrops land on her hands. Her phone buzzed with a text from Sherlock.

 

_Come at once._

  * _SH_




 

Camie smiled and walked faster. A man with a scowl bumped into her, pulling Camie’s phone from her hand. He took off running.

“Hey!” Camie turned and took off after him through the people. The bus hissed as the doors closed. The bald thief raced down the block and Camie sped up. Not half a block later, the man dipped into a wide alley. When she turned the corner to the alley, the man was gone. The alley was empty. Camie looked in further and saw the smaller alley where the backs of the building met. Camie walked into the alley, eyes opened, looking for anything.

A thick hand wrapped around her mouth. Camie let out a muffled scream and breathed in sweet, heavy gas. Her eyes grew heavy and the world went dark.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock paced the apartment anxiously. She was on her way home. She should be here. Something was wrong. Sherlock tried her cell phone again and was only greeted by her voicemail. He cursed and tossed his phone at the wall. The phone shattered with a crack.

The doorbell rang. Sherlock opened his curtains and looked out onto the dark Baker Street. No one was at the door anymore. The street was quiet as rain poured down.

“Mrs. Hudson! Get the door.”

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs a few minutes later. She carried a cream colored envelope, “This was at the door, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took the envelope from her. There was something heavy inside the thick paper. Mrs. Hudson picked up an empty cup of Sherlock’s tea, “But, get your own mail next time. I’m not your housekeeper.”

Mrs. Hudson walked into the kitchen to clean up. Sherlock stared down at the letter. Sherlock was spelled out in red on the front of the envelope. Not in ink, but in blood. Sherlock opened the envelope and pulled out the note.

 

_You have three hours to find me. Good luck._

A heavy necklace sat the bottom of the bag. Sherlock poured the gold necklace into his hand. A rune for peace and femininity looked up at him. Dried blood stained the surface. Sherlock closed his eyes and pictured the necklace Camie had been wearing that morning. He picked up his phone and dialed the first number.

The phone rang through to voicemail. “John, call me.”  

Sherlock hung up and called the second number. This time someone picked up, “Lestrade…”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

 

John called an hour later, “What do you need, Sherlock?”

“Yes, why didn’t you call back earlier?”

“I was in the middle of the lecture. I thought we agreed that you would leave me out of whatever it is you got yourself into while I’m gone.”

Sherlock sat up on the couch and stared at the skull on his mantle, “You agreed. I said nothing of the sort. Besides, it’s important.”

“I can’t come back just to help you.”

“Camie was taken.”

“Camie. Who the hell is Camie, Sherlock?” John lowered his voice.

“Camie Greer, our new flatmate.”

“Our new flatmate?”

Sherlock ignored the rage in John’s voice, “I thought I told you.”

“No, no you definitely did not.” John huffed on the other side of the line. Sherlock stood and picked up his violin. He plucked one of the strings. Sharp. John quit pacing, “Why did you call me, Sherlock?”

“Did you look at the photographs that I sent you?”

“Yes, I did.” Another huff.

“Describe them to me.”

“Why, Sherlock. I have to get going.”

“A girl is missing, John. Missing. She could be dead.”

John sighed and Sherlock could hear him rummaging in a bag. John flipped through a pad of paper and cleared his throat, “You said they were cleaned with bleach. No evidence left behind.”

“Come on, John. Give me something worth thinking about.”

John shook his head, his hair brushing against the phone receiver, “Whoever did it was either a obsessive compulsive asshole or didn’t want to be found unless they wanted to be found. Was there a pattern? Where the bodies were found, did they form a pattern?”

“Of course,” Sherlock ended the call and closed his eyes. He found his map of London and pinpointed the exact locations of each of the murders. Play my game, Sherlock. The words repeated themselves over and love in his mind. Yes, but what type of game? A game of murder? Chess? Football? Or perhaps just her game. She controlled the rules so that only she could win. All to spite him, all to feel the thrill of the chase.

And there the pattern was. A spiral. Curving inward towards a small abandoned theater. Sherlock’s phone vibrated, jerking him out of his mind. Unknown number. He opened the message and tapped on the attached picture. Another blood letter, this one smudged. The words were shakily written.

 

_Involve the police and Camie dies. You know where to find me, Sherlock Holmes._

 

Sherlock slipped his phone into his coat pocket and looked out the window. The London sky had darkened into a grey evening. Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his next and hurried down the stairs of apartment 221B.

Outside, the air shifted as a cold front moved in. Sherlock hailed a cab and jumped in.

 

* * *

 

A black car idled in front of the abandoned theater. Sherlock paid the cabbie and crossed the street. The windows to the theater were dark and boarded over. Sherlock tugged on the handle of the middle door and it swung open with a screech. The theater entrance hall was dimly lit from the holes in the ceiling. The place smelt of mold and animals, but the old grandeur of the theater was not easily hidden. Deep red and gold carpet lined the floors and faded murals raced along the walls. The doors to the theater hid behind thick red curtains.

Sherlock hurried up the grand staircase and through the main doors. There was a click and light blinded him. Sherlock shielded his eyes from the spotlight.

“Sherlock Holmes, so glad you could make it,” A woman in red stood on the stage in her own spotlight. Sherlock glanced at the glittering necklace around her throat. The woman laughed, “I must admit I was a little worried. I was told you were smart, but I had no idea how smart. If you had arrived a little earlier then you might have saved your friend from a lot of pain.”

Sherlock let his eyes adjust to the spotlight enough to see Camie laying behind the woman in a pool of blood. Her chest rose, she breathing shallow. “Who are you?”

“Why, my name is Alice, my dear. Did I forget to sign my letters again? Damn, I really am forgetful.” Alice turned around and went to stand beside Camie. The spotlight followed her. “Please, have a seat. The show is about to begin.”

“Which show is that?” Sherlock walked down the aisle. The spotlight followed him steadily.

Alice knelt beside Camie and opened a medical bag. From the bag, she took out a syringe filled with clear liquid. Adrenaline. Alice flicked the syringe twice, “I have been trying to get your attention for a while now. To be blunt, you have the skills to get something that I need and I have the reason you will get it for me.”

“Her?”

“Don’t lie, Sherlock. I have seen you two together. I know you care for her, I know the lengths you will go to to save someone you love.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why does anyone do anything?” Alice smiled, “Because they are told.”

Alice laughed and plunged the needle into Camie’s heart. Seconds passed. Camie gasped and shot up. She looked around with widened eyes, “Sherlock.”

Camie looked down at the blood seeping from her cut wrist. She wrapped her other hand behind her. Sherlock watched as Alice took a paint brush from her bag. Alice handed the paintbrush to Camie. Camie didn’t let go of her wrist. She stared at Sherlock, who now stared at Alice. Camie’s heart raced. She could feel the blood pulsing beneath her fingertips. Camie stared at Sherlock willing herself to stay awake as she sat in the pool of her own blood. Alice’s lips brushed against her ear and Alice whispered something. Camie wasn’t sure what. The world spun.

Alice stood and stepped back. Camie closed her eyes. When she opened them, Sherlock was on the stage. Alice’s voice rang in her ears. “Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty.”

A shot rang out and Sherlock’s hands wrapped around her wrist. He yelled, but Camie couldn’t make out what he was saying.

“What...? What...?” Sherlock yelled. The rest was background noise and everything was going black. Camie shook her head. Not what… Who.

“Moriarty.”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter 8**

 

“How is your wrist?” John set a bowl of soup down next to Camie. She smiled up at him then examined her wrapped wrist.

“Fine, thank you, John. You are a good doctor.” Camie blew on the steaming soup.

“I have seen much worse. You are very lucky.” John smiled down at the kind girl. When Sherlock had said she was a consulting detective, he never pictured Camie being almost opposite of Sherlock. Patient, considerate, not an ass. “I’m going to go out and get you some more medicine. I’ll be back soon.”

Sherlock appeared in the doorway to the living room. John cleared his throat and quickly left. Camie sat up and set her soup in her lap. Sherlock sat beside her on the couch, “You look well.”

“Hospital food works wonders, Sherlock. A little bit of type O never hurts either.” Camie stirred her soup, “Did you ever learn more about Alice?”

“No.” Sherlock stared at the skull on his mantel, lost in thought.

“Have you ever heard of Moriarty before?”

Sherlock sighed and kissed Camie’s soft hair. Outside, the streets were dark with heavy rain. A new mystery settled into the streets of London. A mystery by the name of Moriarty. Sherlock nodded, “I heard of him once. From a cabbie.”

  
The End. 


End file.
